


Half an Angel

by thisbluespirit



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Shadow of the Tower
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e01 Crown in Jeopardy, F/M, Pre-Canon, Random Pairing Generator, Request Meme, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: To mark their betrothal, Elizabeth sends Henry half a golden coin, but it seems to be embued with strange powers...





	Half an Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllegoriesInMediasRes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/gifts).



> Written for the randomly generated meme prompt: "Henry VII/Elizabeth of York - telepathy/mental connection."

Henry thought it must be a dream the first time it happened. He had received word from his mother concerning the deal she had made with Elizabeth Woodville. The former Queen had agreed to support Henry’s claim to the throne and he would marry her daughter, the Princess Elizabeth. It gave him a real chance, something he had not had before. He had all but ignored, almost forgotten, the small personal token that the Lady Elizabeth had sent him: half a coin, a gold angel cut in two, the other half kept by her. In sanctuary, it must have been the best she had to send, and for all the pragmatism of the arrangement, it touched him. (He understood having little that was one’s own to hand: he had been well-looked after as a guest, but it was always and only as a guest, dependant on his host’s pleasure, the word ‘prisoner’ always hovering unsaid. Even now, he was kept apart from his uncle. Nothing was his, nothing was safe.)

He pocketed the half-coin and, later, put it under his pillow, not of a mind to explain it to anyone around him, nor to let them take it. That was the first time he heard her voice in his mind, if only briefly, for she vanished again in fright. He had risen to try and find the speaker, to discover how the trick had been performed, but he could see nothing. The voice must have carried from elsewhere in the keep, as they so often did.

 

The next time, he was not so near to sleep, and was unable to pretend the incident wasn’t real, nor that it was distant: someone was speaking into his ear, but when he turned, there was no one there. He stiffened with fear in the bed, and wondered if it could be witchcraft, but after a moment reasoned that if it had been, the other voice would hardly sound so nervous. Curiosity bested fear, and he began playing along to discover the truth.

 _Who is it?_ she asked. Wherever she was, it was not here, but there was a tremor in her voice and she was no doubt shaking. _Are you a devil?_

He stifled a laugh against his pillows, having his own fears thrown back at him. _I trust not._ He closed his fingers around his half of the coin, and tried his best guess, other than it being madness: _You are the Lady Elizabeth?_

A sharp intake of breath: _Who are you?_

 _Richmond_ , he said. _Henry Tudor. Didn’t you know? It seems to be your gift that has created this means of speaking between us._

_That’s impossible. You must be a spirit. If not a devil, than an angel._

Henry smothered another laugh. _Certainly_ not _an angel, I fear._

But there was only silence after: she had gone again. He should have felt relieved, but the room seemed suddenly terribly silent and empty.

 

 _Was_ it a spell, though? A bewitchment sent by one of his enemies, perhaps? He had plenty, although none to whom he was ready to attribute that skill. He could not see King Richard asking for such a thing to be done . But it was not natural, and that inevitably brought with it unease. After the first few times, after persuading Elizabeth to accept she was communicating with her betrothed across the sea, he put the coin aside, wary of such unasked miracles. These last few nights, he had not been alone, and he had been not so fearful, putting his mind to the matter of how to persuade her to stay with him and talk, even if she said she wasn’t yet reduced to speaking to imaginary exiles, who didn’t seem to be in a hurry to act on their promises. 

If it was a bewitchment, the temptation to continue was already strong. But he’d always heard the creatures of the devil would try to flatter and seduce, not first run away and then stay to be haughty and insulting. A princess in a difficult position, however, might well behave precisely thus. He studied the angel for any sign of what had given it its powers, but it looked like any other: his half had the dragon, her half must display St Michael slaying the creature. An omen? The thought amused him.

 

 _I’m sorry,_ she said, a few nights later. _I didn’t believe it could be you. It seemed so impossible. My foolish gift did this?_

_I cannot think what else could have done. I did nothing to summon you, I assure you._

_If you did, I have been a disappointing apparition. Tell me, where are you?_

He stared up at the ceiling. _Better not to say._

_You think I would run and tell tales to my uncle?_

_If I don’t say, then you cannot. As I said, it’s better. Safer._

_True,_ she said, _but not very flattering._

 

She wasn’t always there, even when he had the half a coin close at night, and sometimes he hid it away, not prepared to risk unwise talk, or the lure of intimacy with someone he might never reach, or who might prove after all to be an enemy, or used by one. If he allowed himself to be too far drawn in, it would make failure even more unbearable. Besides, he was occupied by running away from King Richard again, this time in a desperate bolt to France.

When the gossip about King Richard’s efforts to marry his niece reached Henry there, he hid the half-angel away, and concentrated on trying to win back his followers, or at least reassure his most faithful supporters. He ignored the possibility of resuming their conversations and asking the Lady Elizabeth if the rumours were true – if she were still on his side, or if she had ever been. He could not stomach the thought of hearing that confirmed from her, nor being given a lie – and if it were _not_ true, and he knew it, then how much harder it would be to promise his followers he would marry a loyal Lancastrian instead?

 

 _Where have you been?_ she asked when he finally broke the long silence. _I thought you must be dead. I had heard tales that there was some danger. But no! Did someone steal your half of the angel? Were you dying of a fever? I trust you have some such good excuse!_

Henry was glad he was temporarily alone; it would have been hard to explain to anyone else why he was smiling. _I have had a narrow escape or two. Would it trouble you if I did come to harm?_

 _Perhaps a little_ , she said. _But one cannot be too sorry over a person never hears from. And you had best hurry here, or I shall be gone to Portugal._

 _I must first make all the necessary preparations_ , he said, but the last piece of information dismayed him more than he wished to admit, to himself or to her. Both for political reasons, and for those of his heart, he would be King of England and have Elizabeth at his side, or he would die in the attempt.

 

It was ignominious merely to fail and slink back across the Channel, hoping for another chance, but better than final defeat.

 _You mustn’t give in now_ , she said, afterwards. _Do you know where I am? Can you guess?_

Henry was in no mood for guessing games; despondency threatening. He must try again; there was no going back now. He had reached out a hand and Richard must put an end to him to ensure the safety of his realm and he must try to seize the crown first. He thought privately only that she was not here with him, and it seemed likely she never would be. Perhaps this was a work of the devil; to torment him further for his failure.

 _I am with your mother,_ she said, and her amusement coloured every word. _It is supposed to be a punishment, but I am spending the time persuading Sir Thomas in your favour. I think now that he might help us. And you do not need me to tell you that your mother is tireless on your behalf._

Us, she had said, not you. Henry smiled faintly in the dark. He wasn’t sure be believed her about Thomas Stanley: his stepfather was far too careful to make sure which way the wind was blowing before he cast his lot one side or the other. _Then thank you. Take care, my lady._

 _Oh, I have_ some _influence, you know_ , she said, haughty again. _I_ am _Elizabeth of York._ She laughed. _Of course, I do not tell Lady Margaret what I am about, and I am so very obtuse when she hints at our betrothal. I talk of Portugal to her often, and sigh over not being Queen of France after all._

_Does she believe you?_

_No, I think not_ , said Elizabeth after a pause. _She is your mother. I do not think she believes I could_ not _wish to marry you._

Damn the half an angel; curse this unnatural gift! He had always been so careful what he did; he made sure his ventures would succeed before he started, if it was in his power. Too often it was not. Now he was entangled in a relationship that would hurt them both even more than it would otherwise have done if he lost the battle ahead.

 

After Bosworth, he sent Sir Robert Willoughby to fetch her as speedily as possible – one of his first actions following the battle. He must ensure she was safe and have her brought to London to join him there. He knew from his informants that she and Warwick were both at Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, intended to be safely out of his reach, but he also knew it from the Lady Elizabeth herself. She’d wished him good fortune the night before the battle, and had not laughed, nor said this time that she did not care.

Still, he put the moment of meeting off, even after she had arrived in London. He had her safely installed in the Tower and pretended to himself that was not cowardly as well as prudent. After all this time, these shared nights, what would she think when she saw him? He had his own merits, but he was not what people termed handsome and far from dashing – and she was young, a princess, and by all accounts a beauty. He pretended to himself that he did not fear seeing disappointment and resignation on her face and that it was, of course, essential to first prove his right to the throne without her, and to consider the advantages and disadvantages of other matches before he saw her.

After he had seen her, he felt instinctively, it would be too late.

 

They met in person at his coronation. Elizabeth was indeed all she had been described to him as: fair of face and form. She was also angry, though she was hiding it as best as she could, giving a low curtsey in greeting and lowering her gaze demurely. He already knew her well enough to hear it in her voice.

“I am out of favour with you,” he said, keeping his voice low. He had also feared they might give each other away at their first meeting proper and God only knew what the Court would make of that. “But there has been much to attend to – and I knew that you were safe.”

She raised her chin, a spark in her eyes, and then lowered her gaze again. “I have heard not a word from you since the night before the battle! I feared the worst, but no matter, your grace had much to attend to, too much to deign to inform me that you were alive.”

“I thought,” he said, “it might appear strange if you had news of the battle’s outcome days before anyone else – it would be a hard piece of knowledge to hide. And once news had come, word from me was redundant – Sir Robert Willoughby would be with you soon after.”

She faced him, and let him know as carefully as she might what she thought of her rushed journey, and of her imprisonment in the Tower, and Warwick’s being separated from the rest of her family, before stopping in the shelter of a pillar, while he merely gave his reasons in return: the roads were not safe, the Tower had been the most appropriate place, and that Warwick must be kept well out of reach of those who would use him.

They both looked across at young Warwick, laughing with his cousin the Earl of Lincoln. Something uncurled in Henry in sensing that she understood what he meant.

“But you could have _spoken_ to me,” said Elizabeth in an undertone. “Only a few seconds, your grace – that would have been enough! Why didn’t you?”

“I am too rarely alone now,” he said, moving closer. “I dared not.”

“You dared to win the crown, but not to speak to _me_ , secretly, silently, in the night?”

Henry took her hand. “Ah, but you are the greatest danger I have faced: you somehow bestow strange powers on a chance golden coin and may well have bewitched me with it. What else might you do? Besides, the King cannot be found laughing at nothing in the night.”

“Now you are being ridiculous.” But she smiled.

“I am being quite serious.” She had become a constant, if invisible, presence at his side through this uncertain time. But the reverse was true also; he was finally starting to see that. “Soon,” he added, “we shall reunite both halves of the coin.”

Elizabeth lowered her head in assent. “How did it happen – this thing, between us?” she whispered as he led her back to her sister Cecily.

“That,” said Henry with a smile, “will be for us to find out over the coming days – months – years, I trust. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, your grace,” she said, and when she curtseyed again in parting, there was nothing contrary in it.


End file.
